


Mystrade Actually

by TheRedheadinQuestion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Inspired by Love Actually, Love Actually References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 19:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/pseuds/TheRedheadinQuestion
Summary: Mycroft Homes and Greg Lestrade fancy each other, but life keeps interrupting. Can they get it together before Christmas, or will their wishes go unanswered?Yep...it's a Mystrade / Love Actually Mashup!!





	Mystrade Actually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> This for my dear Savvyblunders, who puts up with--nay, encourages--my weirdness. Love ya Savvy!!
> 
> Special thanks to RedGreyandPurple (aka SiriusBlue) for her Brit pick!!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/40357881@N07/38960408292/in/dateposted-public/)

 

**Four weeks before Christmas**

The glossy black car slowed as it approached its destination, and the British Government opened his door before it came to a full stop. Within a minute he'd swept into the A&E, announced his name at the desk and obtained a room number.  Two minutes later he stepped into room 308. It was devoid of beds, but full of one furiously pacing, mumbling man.

 "Oh." Mycroft stopped short. "Detective Inspector. I didn't realise you'd--"

 Greg whirled around, relief peppering his face. "Mr. Holmes. Glad you're here."

 "I see our duo are not."

Greg ran his hands through his hair. Christ, but he was exhausted. First it was chasing leads all week, then last night’s ill-fated stakeout, and now this. "Yeah, they're still being sorted. Nursing staff said they’d be brought here.”

Mycroft’s eyes slid from Greg’s mussed hair to the dark circles under his eyes and rested on his untucked shirt. “Kind of you to stay, Detective Inspector, but I believe I can manage from here. Perhaps you should get some rest.”

"A nap? Are you kidding?” Greg looked at him in amazement. “I’m stayin’ put until I see those two wankers. They’re lucky the doctors didn't have to extract my foot from each of their backsides after what they pulled."

Mycroft's left eyebrow quirked. "Yes, my PA was a bit murky on the details. What exactly did transpire?" 

Greg opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by staff wheeling in the bed containing a very drowsy John Watson, his right arm in a sling and the matching shoulder bandaged. A nurse entered and spoke to Mycroft as she hooked up John's machinery and took his vitals. Greg had barely parsed the words _dislocated shoulder_ and _fractured elbow_ when another bed entered. The face of the person in this bed was heavily swollen, with dark bruises covering most of it, but the hair was unmistakably Sherlockian.

As Mycroft consulted with the nurse, Greg took a closer look. For someone who'd taken a regulation Olympic hammer to the jaw, he looked far better than expected. Good job the criminal hadn't space to really wind up. He'd heard of skulls being crushed by those things.

Seconds after the nurse left, Greg stood between the foot of their beds and glowered.

"Right, you lot. How many times have I told you not to go off on your own?" He paused only to level a scowl at each of them in turn. "More times than I can count. This would never have happened if you'd just _stuck with the fucking plan_."

Sherlock groaned and John immediately looked over.

"Sher...Sherlock?" His voice was a slow croak and he looked at Mycroft. "H...how?"

"Severe facial trauma, concussion, and I'm afraid my dear brother has suffered a broken jaw." Mycroft answered. "He'll recover fully, in time. However, doctors felt it necessary to wire his jaw shut."

"Great." John deadpanned before passing out entirely

"Oy!" Greg exclaimed. "I'm not done with either one of you."

Mycroft stepped forward. "It appears, Detective Inspector, that they're out cold. Your words, deserved as I'm sure they are, might be better served when they’re lucid and not under the influence of heavy pain medication."

Greg exhaled heavily, the fight leaving him. "Yeah, you're right." He looked at Mycroft as if he'd just noticed him. "Mr. Holmes. Sorry, I didn't greet you properly. Please...call me Greg."

Mycroft inclined his head. "Only if you consent to exchange Mr. Holmes for Mycroft."

Greg grinned, and the smile took five years off him. "Deal." He shuffled his feet and scratched the back of his neck. "Mycroft, d’ya want to...I...I mean...you look like you can use...not that you look bad...at all...it's just that..."

Mycroft’s eyes widened as Greg’s spoke, then narrowed at the shrill sound of his mobile.

“Apologies.” Mycroft said as he neatly retrieved his phone from his jacket pocket and stepped towards the window.

"Yes, yes they'll be fine." Mycroft said to the caller. "We’ll need to secure a care nurse for their convalescence.  In the meantime, we must decide what to tell the Chinese delegation.  I daresay they are more impatient than ever, what with North Korea intent on--"

Mycroft lost his train of thought when Greg held up a hand in silent farewell and left.

"Mr. Holmes?"

_Damn._

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Um, yes Anthea. Where were we?"

 

 

 

**Three weeks before Christmas**

 

Greg carefully climbed the stairs to 221b, gripping the slow cooker with both hands. He made it to the top step before realizing he had no hands with which to knock on the door. Of course--the one time the door was actually shut. He kicked it with his right foot and startled when it was swiftly opened not by Sherlock, but his brother.

"Mr. Ho---er...Mycroft. I didn't expect you here."

"Gregory. How nice to see you." Mycroft opened the door the rest of the way. "Do come in."

Greg stepped into the flat and saw Sherlock, clad in flannel pants, tee, and dressing gown, sitting backwards in his chair, knees drawn to his chest. He was staring straight ahead, but Greg could see that the swelling in his face was down and the bruises were turning  yellow. Littered around the chair were pages from a notepad; some crumpled, some ripped into pieces, but each containing Sherlock's scrawl. 

"Not in the mood for a chat, then?"

"He’s having a sulk." John appeared from the kitchen and carefully sat in his chair, wincing as he adjusted his sling. "Says his jaw's healed, but that’s physically impossible."

Already? "Bit soon, don't you think?" Greg turned to Sherlock, who continued to stare at the wall.

"Oooookay." Greg turned back to John and held up the slow cooker. "Right. I made a batch of my Nan's chicken soup. Figured, what with your wing still on the mend, and Mr. Chatty over there drinking his meals, you could use a bit of home cooking."

"Cheers." John said. "Sounds great about now.  I’ll puree some for Sherlock, not that it’ll do any good. He hates taking meals through a straw."

Greg placed the slow cooker on the worktop, plugged it in and set it to low. "Now, I want this thing back in one piece.” He said sternly, raising his voice so Sherlock could hear. “Do not go near it with anything even resembling an experiment."

He went back to the lounge and sat on the sofa next to Mycroft. 

"Doing all right, then?"

Mycroft looked startled to be addressed and flushed ever so slightly. "Oh, yes, Gregory. Fine. Quite fine."

"Good. Good." Greg swallowed hard. "That's...good." He racked his brain to think of something to say. It had to be smart, pithy and cause those beautiful grey eyes to look his way.

The instant he opened his mouth, Sherlock turned his head and watched them. Greg's nerve vaporised.

"I'm just gonna...go. Good luck with Sherlock." He nodded at John and Mycroft before making a beeline for the stairs.

At the bottom of the steps, he heard footsteps.

"Gregory--"

He turned around to see Mycroft making his way down.

Greg stood up straight. He was suddenly aware of his rumpled sweatshirt and less than clean jeans. He'd spent the day cleaning his flat and making soup, and didn't think to change before stopping by. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked impeccable--as if he'd stepped out of an advert. As usual.

"Thank you for your kindness towards my brother and Dr. Watson." Mycroft said once he'd reached the bottom. "I'm sure they greatly appreciate it."

"One of them does, anyway." Greg said wryly. “As for the other...well, let's just say the day Sherlock is appreciative, my hair’ll turn dark again."

The left edge of Mycroft's mouth lifted and he chuckled. An actual chuckle. Greg felt very lucky indeed to be on the receiving end of a Mycroft smile, however small. He suddenly wanted to do whatever it took to earn the full blown version.

"I hope that day never comes." Mycroft said. "The world would be a sadder place without its Silver Fox."

Greg felt his face redden. "Go on. I'm just an old copper--"

His words were cut off by Mycroft's shrill ringtone. Greg was quickly coming to hate the sound.

Mycroft, for his part, pressed his lips together tightly and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He slipped his phone from his pocket.

"My apologies, Gregory." He smiled a pained smile and slid his thumb along the screen to answer.

"What _now_? This had better be important."

Once again, Greg sighed, lifted a hand in farewell, and left.

 

 

 

**Two weeks before Christmas**

 

Greg rushed through the A&E doors and skidded to a stop in front of John.

"Seriously?"

John rolled his eyes so hard they practically fell onto the floor and rolled under the front desk.

"Why weren't you watching him?"

"Oy! I thought he was napping. He always falls asleep after we...anyway." John cleared his throat. "The whole flat smelled of Mrs. Hudson's mince pies, so I went downstairs for a sample. Didn't want to eat it in front of Sherlock, y'know. They're his favourite."

Greg just stared at John, who scuffed his shoe on the ground before continuing.

"When I got back, the berk was in the bathroom with a pair of wire cutters in his mouth. Practically had to tackle him to get them out of his hand. Nearly reinjured myself."

"Why the _hell_ would he unwire his own jaw?" Greg said in disbelief. "Missed the sound of his voice?"

John sighed the deep, disturbed sigh of a man on the edge. "His note said he's healed and wanted a mince pie. That modern medicine is incapable of understanding the speed at which a Holmes can heal."

"Christ."

"Tell me about it."

Just then, the double doors opened and Mycroft entered, frowning at something on his mobile. He stopped short when he saw Greg.

"Gregory."

Bloody hell but did Mycroft look delicious. Black pinstripe, navy shirt, coordinating tie, black wingtips. One big, long stripe of sex. Greg wanted nothing more than to strip away the armour and slowly kiss his entire body. For days.

"Uh...Mycroft?" John said.

"Oh, yes." Mycroft turned to John. "My staff has given Baker Street a thorough sweep and removed all tools from 221b. They've also persuaded Mrs. Hudson to part with hers."

"Daft bugger." Greg said. "Just when we think we've reached the limits of Sherlock’s ridiculousness."

"Speaking of which." Mycroft held up his mobile to show Greg and John a text. "My brother seems to have acquired a phone and has several rather creative comments as to the quality of care he's received from hospital staff thus far."

John groaned.

"Dr. Watson, I do wish you'd allow the care nurse to return--"

"We don't need her, Mycroft. It's bloody annoying having someone around just to watch over us. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself and Sherlock just fine."

"I see that." Mycroft said frostily. "Heaven knows what he'd get up to if you _weren't_ watching him."

John glared and opened his mouth just as his mobile buzzed. He glanced at it.

"Holy hell. Now he's...I better get in there." He nodded to Greg and shot one last frown in Mycroft's direction.

"A nurse?" Greg asked after John disappeared into the corridor. "At Baker Street? I hope you're giving her combat pay."

"Very nearly."

The two stared at each other, clearly at a loss for words.

“Well, I guessss...I should get back.” Greg finally said as he took a step towards the door.

“I...” Mycroft began. He cleared his throat before continuing. “I regret the interruption of our recent conversations. I'm afraid duty calls at the most inopportune time."

Greg turned back and nodded. “Yeah, I know all about that. You just set your mind to relaxing on the couch with an old movie or a good match on the telly, and some bastard decides to kill his neighbour and ruin your evening. Trust me, that's one thing I do understand."

Mycroft brightened. "Perhaps...perhaps you might have time for a coffee before returning to work?

Greg grinned. "Love to."

They went around the corner to a little cafe. Greg found them a table amongst the cheerful holiday decorations while Mycroft went to the counter. He returned with two flat whites clad in holiday paper cups and a slice of chocolate cake with two forks.

"Cheers." Greg held his up his cup before taking a sip. "Do you even believe Sherlock?"

 "I'm afraid my brother does many things which boggle the mind."

"Tell me about it. Once he jumped into a septic tank because he was sure the sludge would tell him where a murderer was hiding."

Mycroft crinkled his nose in disbelief. Greg laughed and realized he’d never seen the crinkle before. But he liked it. A lot.

"And did it?" Mycroft leaned forward ever so slightly.

"God help me but it did.” He took another sip of his coffee. “'Course, no one would let him in their cars afterward. I finally convinced the local fire brigade to hose him down, then we all chipped in for a cab."

Mycroft broke into delighted laughter and Greg joined in.

"So, what are your plans for Christmas?" Greg slid a fork towards Mycroft. "Gathering at Holmes manor?"

Mycroft sighed. "Nothing so ostentatious. No, this year our parents elected to go on a cruise in the Caribbean. Said they just didn’t have another British winter in them."

“Can’t blame them for that. I like a bit of warm weather myself.” Greg took a bite of cake, and noticed Mycroft watching his mouth. “So...that means you’re on your own then? That’s too bad.”

Mycroft shook himself slightly and looked away. “On the contrary. I shall enjoy the day in blessed silence, free from snide remarks and judgment from my brother and pronouncements from my mother that I need to work less and date more."

"Mums, huh?" Greg chuckled. "No matter how old we get, they still think they know better."

"And you?" Mycroft helped himself to a small bite of cake and pushed the rest towards Greg. "What’s on your agenda for the holidays?"

Greg’s finger traced the edge of his fork. "Well, since my sister’s divorce it’s pretty quiet with just her and her daughter. Thought I'd spend the hols with them, see if goofy uncle Greg can liven up little Katie's Christmas."

"They live in London, then?"

Greg shoved a big bite of cake in his mouth and nodded. "Down in Wandsworth. The dodgy end."

Mycroft looked amused. "I'm sure your niece must have been very good if it warrants a stay from her uncle Greg."

Greg ducked his head. "I don't know about that. It's more like they have to put up with _me_."

"Now Gregory. I seriously doubt anyone has to _put up_ with you." Mycroft's eyes sparkled. "Perhaps, after you return, we could--"

Sally burst in the front door, breathless. "Boss, there you are."

Both Mycroft and Greg startled.

"What in the bloody blazes are you doing here?” Greg asked.

"Call came in. Double murder and we're up. Let's go."

Greg groaned and looked at Mycroft. "What did you say about duty calling?"

"Certainly." He murmured. "Go. We can speak later."

Greg stood and put on his scarf and coat. "Looking forward to it. But, listen, if I don't talk to you before, Merry Christmas."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "Happy Holidays, Gregory."

They stood there looking at each other for a few moments, until Sally coughed.

"Boss..."

"What? Oh, yeah." He gave Mycroft a sheepish grin and disappeared out the door with Sally.

Mycroft watched them go until Gregory was out of sight. He pulled the remainder of the cake closer and picked up a fork.

 

 

 

**One week before Christmas**

 

Greg signed the last piece of paperwork with a flourish and picked up his ringing desk phone.

"Lestrade."

"Gregory."

Greg sat up in his office chair and smoothed his shirt. "Mycroft! Nice to hear from you."

"You may not feel that way in two minutes." 

Greg frowned. "Why's that?"

"The Smithfield case. I'm afraid we must take it over."

"It's because of Lord Marlowe, isn't it? Dammit, I knew once he was pulled into the mix it was only a matter of time."

"Yes, well, in any event, if you don't mind, someone from my office will be by to pick up the file."

It took Greg approximately three seconds to come up with a better plan. 

"You know what? Why don't I drop it off?"

"Gregory, I'm sure you must be busy."

"Actually, I just got through a mountain of paperwork, and it'd be nice to get out of the office and breathe some fresh air. I mean, unless you don't want to see this old face..."

"Oh no!" Mycroft broke in hastily. He cleared his throat and spoke more calmly. "I just didn't want to inconvenience you."

"I offered, though. You're definitely not putting me out."

"In that case, I look forward to it. I'll let security know to expect you."

 

 

 

 

An hour later, Greg was ushered through security the moment his warrant card was read, and escorted through corridors and a hidden elevator until finally he was ushered through an unassuming set of double doors. A familiar looking woman sat at a large desk.

"Go right in, Detective Inspector." She said. "I'll let Mr. Holmes know you've arrived."

"Right. Thank you."

As she left Greg stepped into Mycroft's large office. He stood in the middle and breathed in the subtle scent of Mycroft. Here was his inner sanctum. He looked at the painting of Elizabeth on the wall, and walked around, examining the various details. At the sound of footsteps, Greg whirled around, a ready smile on his face.

It wasn't Mycroft.

It was a man who looked vaguely familiar. It took a few moments before Greg realized he was an American of high influence--Greg recognized his face from the papers.

"Well now, _you're_ not Mycroft." The man said silkily.

"Sorry to disappoint." Greg said. "I'll be out of the way soon."

"Don't hurry on my account." The American gave the door behind him a gentle push and it closed part way. "I don't believe we've met."

"Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector."

"Rex Tillerson, Secretary of State." He stepped to Greg and shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Tillerson. Or is it Mr. Secretary? Sorry...I'm pants at titles."

"Rex, please." The Secretary looked Greg up and down and raised an eyebrow. Instead of releasing his hand, Tillerson covered it with his other. His skin was unpleasantly soft and moist, and Greg had a sudden vision of his hand being trapped in a large clam.  "I had no idea detective inspectors were so handsome, or else I might have considered a move here years ago."

Greg was keenly aware that his hand was still trapped. He gently tried to pull away, but it took several seconds for Tillerson to release it. Once he did, he moved closer and placed his right clam hand on Greg's shoulder.

"I'll be finished before too long. Could I interest you in dinner this evening?" The hand slid to his chest and Tillerson’s clam thumb stroked Greg’s lapel. "I'd love your input as our two great countries work toward a better future."

Greg froze. Was he actually being hit on? By this oily bastard? Yes. Yes, he was. Greg suppressed a shudder as a throat cleared behind them. Both Greg and Tillerson spun around.

"Mycroft. At last." Tillerson said without missing a beat. 

"Mr. Secretary." Mycroft's eyes darted over Greg, as if checking for damage. Once satisfied he was intact, he settled his gaze on the Secretary of State. Mycroft's grey eyes turned stormy, his jaw clenched, and his lips tightened into a straight line.

"I'll just..."  Greg handed Mycroft the Smithfield file. "Here's the...yeah." He walked out with his eyes downcast, avoiding eye contact with anyone. After his escape, he heard Tillerson's voice as he passed Anthea's desk.

"That's a fine piece of ass right there, Mycroft. What I wouldn't give to have him on his knees."

 

 

 

**Christmas Eve**

 

Greg walked into his sister's lounge, smoothing the reindeer on his holiday jumper.  It was a bright red and green Fair Isle pattern, and Katie picked it out especially because Rudolph’s face took up most of his chest.

Liz sat on the couch, carefully plaiting Katie's hair. On the telly, BBC news showed a clip of Rex Tillerson being escorted into a black SUV by federal agents. _American Secretary of State caught in money laundering scheme_ the headline read.

"We'll leave at half past." Liz said. "Katie has to be at the school early."

Katie patted the mound of red padded...something...beside her. "Guess what, Uncle Greg? Justin got sick. That means I'm the first lobster!"

Greg narrowed his eyes and the question formed on his lips. His sister gave him a silencing look as the doorbell rang.

"I'll...just get the door." He said with a grin.

"Yes, you do that." Liz chuckled and threw a few hair grips at him.

Greg trotted down the stairs and opened the door.

It was Sherlock. Out here? At his sister’s house?

"What the--"

"Greg? Who is it?" Liz's voice filtered in from the lounge.

Sherlock held up a stack of large white cards.  The first one read:

 

 

 

**For the love of god,**

**say it's carol singers.**

**The strain of wishing a happy holiday**

**to one more person**

**is beyond my endurance.**

 

 

 

Sherlock pushed play on a portable music player, and _Silent Night_ , emoted by a wistful female singer, flowed from the speakers.

"It's carol singers." Greg called back, shaking his head at the ridiculousness.

Sherlock tossed the card on the ground, revealing a new one.

 

 

 

**With any luck,**

**next year an interesting serial killer**

**will be on the rampage**

**and I'll be far too busy**

**to spend time on senseless acts such as this.**

 

 

 

He tossed that one behind his shoulder.

 

 

 

**But for now let me say...**

**Well, I can't _say_ because my jaw**

**has been hatefully rewired shut,**

**and John announced I'm abusing**

**my texting power and took my phone,**

**leaving me with this tedious**

**and primitive mode of communication.**

 

 

 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Greg asked.

Sherlock flipped to the next card.

 

 

 

**_Nevertheless_ , for now, let me say**

**I hope that you and my brother will stop mooning about**

**like a couple of lovesick teenagers**

**and also that you'll keep each other busy**

**and out of my business.**

 

 

"Sherlock." Greg said crossly. "I don't _moon_. I'm not mooning over Mycroft."

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly spelled out what an idiot Greg was and flipped to the next card.

 

 

 

**Not just because it's Christmas,**

**although John says it is and that I'm sentimentally playing cupid,**

**which is stupid because cupid is associated with St. Valentine's Day,**

**which clearly it is not.**

 

 

 

That card was tossed to his left.

 

 

 

**John also says that at Christmas one must tell the truth.**

**Although I always tell the truth, and honestly,**

**most of humanity can't properly lie,**

**which is why I'm inundated with pointless cases**

**that are less than a four.**

 

 

 

Greg crossed his arms and wished Sherlock would just get on with it. Sherlock flipped to the next card.

 

 

**In any event,**

**To Mycroft, you are perfect.**

**He loves your prematurely grey hair,**

**your rumpled, off the rack clothing,**

**your aged, sagging skin, and your grey stubble.**

**Although why is beyond my comprehension.**

 

 

 

"Hey!" Greg objected. "I'm not rumpled. And I don't sag. Much."

Then it hit him.

"Sherlock...are you telling me..."

 

 

 

**And my brother's shrivelled, iceberg of a heart**

**will love you until you look like this:**

 

 

 

The next card depicted a grey mummy, and Greg couldn't help but snort a laugh. Sherlock gave him a look and dropped that card at his feet.

 

 

 

**For God's sake, Graham,**

**Go snog my wretched brother.**

**Put him out of his misery.**

 

 

 

Greg's jaw dropped as Sherlock held up the last card.

 

 

 

**Merry Christmas**

 

 

 

Greg stared at Sherlock, who contemplated him with a raised eyebrow. Finally, Sherlock gave a muffled groan, picked the _‘go to my wretched brother’_ card off the ground and held it in Greg's face.

"Oh! You mean...now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed him a slip of paper. Greg unfolded it. It contained an address in Kensington.

"This ...this is Mycroft's address?"

Sherlock groaned something that vaguely sounded like _for God's sake._ He stomped off in a huff, leaving the cards scattered on the ground and the music playing.

Greg stared at the address. Mycroft liked him? Really, truly liked him? He thought he'd sensed something once or twice, and they'd flirted a little at the coffee shop, but then...nothing. After the debacle with Tillerson, he figured any chance he had with Mycroft slipped away.

But had it?

"Liz! I have to go." Greg called as he grabbed his coat from the peg.

Liz appeared at the top of the stairs. "What? _Now_?"

"Yes, now." If there was even a whisper of a chance with Mycroft, it couldn't wait. Not for another minute, not for another second. He had to know.

"But the Nativity!"

"I'll meet you there." He dashed out the door. "I promise. I just have to...check something."

Greg hurried down the street and set about finding a taxi.

 

 

 

As Mycroft waited for his tea to steep, he contemplated the spread that Mrs. Landingham, his housekeeper, had left for him. He'd given his entire staff the week off, with pay of course, but little did they know it was more for his benefit than theirs. He preferred it this way--the solitude, the silence, the absolute certainty that he was far above the noise, distraction and insincere well wishes that made up the blasted holiday season.

That is, until Sherlock became acquainted with a particular Detective Inspector, and Mycroft’s desires slowly shifted. Now he craved a glimpse of Gregory's warm chocolate eyes, his lustrous silver hair, and especially his masculine form. Why, coaxing a smile from his lips made him happy for the rest of the day. He found himself watching over Sherlock even more, hoping to place himself in situations in which the Detective Inspector's path would cross his.

For his part, Gregory didn't seem to mind interacting with him. In fact, there was a time or two in which he'd felt...something...a thrumming, an almost electric current between him. He'd felt it at Baker Street, and again at the coffee shop, after his brother's unfortunate adventure with the wire cutters. He’d hoped to examine it further when Gregory delivered the file to his office; however, that blasted American got in the way.

How dare Tillerson look at his...at Gregory...in that manner. How dare he make such lewd remarks about a person who was, in every way that mattered, his better. The Secretary of State was quite lucky a scandal drumming him out of office and into jail was _all_ he received.

Mycroft treated himself to a slice of Christmas cake and carried it into his office. He built up the fire and reached for his briefcase. His rare books dealer had recently come across a first addition he’d been searching for, and it seemed the perfect night to indulge. He opened his briefcase and...frowned. There, on top of his folders and rare book, lay a stack of holiday cards. Anthea must have slipped them into his case, he decided. Mycroft sighed and brought them, along with his book, to the armchair by the fire. Might as well get them out of the way.

The first card was from Chester, one of the guards on his floor. The next came from Bethany, his most capable security expert. Probably ensuring their employment continued well into the new year, Mycroft thought. He quickly looked through three more. The next, however, was different from the others, which featured winter scenes carefully chosen for their bland indifference to any one religion. But this one. The text on the front read "Christmas Spirits," but instead of ghosts it depicted bottles of alcohol wearing festive scarves and Father Christmas hats. The barest corners of Mycroft's mouth lifted. _This_ person, at least, wasn't interested in pandering. He opened it.

 

 

 

**Mycroft,**

**Merry Christmas, and I hope you have a happy new Year. I'm very sorry about what happened in your office. I was just standing there, excited to see you again, when suddenly that guy walked in and put the moves on me. I didn't want to start an international incident by telling him to piss off, so I just buggered the hell out of there. I feel like a prize idiot. Particularly because, if you can't say it at Christmas, when can you, eh?**

**I'm actually**

**Your Gregory**

 

 

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up. He tapped the card against his hand for a few moments before retrieving his mobile from the side table.

"Pierson? Might you bring the car 'round? Yes, now."

Mycroft put on his scarf and overcoat and had just locked the door behind him when the car pulled up.

"Where to, Sir?" Pierson asked.

Mycroft realised he didn't know the exact address of Gregory's sister. He reached for his phone to text Anthea, only to remember that she was in Switzerland, tucked into a snowy cabin with her boyfriend. How inappropriate. It was just like her to have a life when he was in need.

"Ah...Wandsworth. The dodgy end."

As the car purred along, Mycroft contemplated what to say once he'd found Gregory. _I received your card. Fancy a cup of coffee? Dinner? Perhaps spend the rest of your life with me?_

That might be a tad dramatic. He straightened the crease in his trousers and sighed impatiently.

When the car rolled to a stop and Pierson opened the door, Mycroft exited and, with one look at the never ending row of houses, adjusted his scarf. Well then, no use standing around. He carefully examined the front of the nearest house. Married couple, retired, no children.  He moved on to the next. Newly divorced man, two children who were with their mother for the holiday. One by one he deduced each house until finally he found one that fit the bill. He stepped over a pile of white cards carelessly scattered on the ground and rang the bell.

A pleasant woman opened the door and looked at him cautiously. Her eyes were warm and brown, just like Gregory's.

"Yes? May I help you?"

Mycroft suddenly felt like a seven-year-old asking if a friend could come and play. He shook the thought from his mind.

"I wonder if Gregory Lestrade might be available?"

"Greg? Are you his boss? Oh, don’t tell me he has to go in...it’s Christmas!"

At least he had the correct house.

"No no...not at all. I'm a...friend."

Liz smiled in relief. "Well, friend, I'm afraid you're a bit late. Greg scarpered out of here half an hour ago, saying he had to check something. Supposed to meet us at the nativity."

Katie ran down the stairs in her lobster costume and pushed her way to the front.

"Are you my Uncle Greg's friend?"

Mycroft looked at her sweet, innocent face and couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Come with us to the nativity." Liz said. "I'm sure Greg would be chuffed to see you."

"I wouldn't want to intrude." Mycroft demurred. "I'm sure our paths will cross at a later date."

"Nonsense. It's Christmas Eve, and we'd never leave anyone alone. Especially a friend of Greg's." Liz grabbed her handbag and turned off the lights.

"Now then, let's get a move on."

 

 

  

Greg's jaw dropped before he even stepped out of the cab. He expected posh, but Mycroft's house was _beyond_ posh. It was the type of house posh dreamed about. He nervously rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it several more times, but the door remained firmly shut. What if Sherlock had it wrong? What if Mycroft was off on some winter getaway with a posh bloke? Some rich git who fit in Mycroft's life much better than he ever could.

Greg suddenly became painfully aware of his trainers, faded jeans and gaudy Christmas jumper. Yeah, he had no business being here. He should never have left Liz's house. He reached for his mobile to call another cab but came up empty. Damn. In his rush, he'd left it sitting on the nightstand in Liz's guest room. He glanced at his watch and saw the time. Bugger. He was going to be late. Before Greg could contemplate how to place a call without a phone, the cabbie who brought him to Mycroft's palace slowly rolled to a stop in front of him.

"Thought you might need a ride back." The cabbie smugly said. "Fish out of water and all that."

Greg swallowed the _fuck you_ on the tip of his tongue and gave the address for Katie's school. With any luck, he wouldn't miss her part. After all, everyone knows that lobsters were the most important part of the nativity.

 

 

  

Mycroft shadowed Liz as they walked through the school and deposited Katie at the stage door.

"Now then!" She said. "Let's find seats, shall we?"

Mycroft didn't dare refuse. He followed her as she weaved in and out of the crowd and found three seats midway to the stage. She sat in the middle seat and dumped her coat and purse on the one to her left.

"That's for Greg, whenever he decides to show up." She looked around briefly before being pulled into conversation with a few of the moms in back of her.

Mycroft scanned the room and willed Greg to arrive soon. Never, in a thousand years, did he imagine he'd spend Christmas eve sitting with Greg's sister at a children's nativity.

 The lights dimmed, and with a smattering of applause the play began.

 

 

  

The cab screeched to a halt in front of the school. Greg jumped out and paid the cabbie.

"You don't need to wait this time, mate." He included a healthy tip. "Happy Christmas."

Greg slipped in the front door and was dismayed to realize the show'd already begun. He stood at a side door and quietly looked through the dim light, trying to recognize his sister. Hopefully she saved him a seat.

His eyes passed over the crowd and stopped on one tall form. If he didn't know better, he'd think that was Mycroft. He looked a little closer.

Wait...no. Not possible.

Was it?

The bottom of his stomach dropped. Definitely. It was _definitely_ him. Greg eyed the person next to Mycroft. Liz! Mycroft fucking Holmes was at his niece's nativity and calmly sitting next to his sister. How the hell did that happen? Had he somehow stepped into an alternate universe?

Suddenly, as if sensing he was being studied, Mycroft glanced around. His eyes rested on the door and moved to Greg, lighting in recognition. He crouched and slowly crept to the door.

Greg took a few steps back, into the light, and took in Mycroft. He was unshaven, with ginger stubble, charcoal corduroy trousers and a soft pine jumper that revealed the edges of a button down shirt at his collar and cuffs. It was the most casual he'd ever seen Mycroft, yet the most attractive. Mycroft was _more_ than attractive. He was bloody gorgeous.

"Mycroft. What are you...why...you're here."

Mycroft's eyes met Greg's and he blushed. "I was looking for you, Gregory."

"Me?"

"Your sister said you'd left in a rush. I trust you completed your errand?"

Greg slowly shook his head, still in disbelief that Mycroft was here. At his niece's school.

"Actually, I was looking for you. Went to your house but you didn't answer."

It was Mycroft's turn to look stunned. "Me? But why?"

Greg noticed several people around them, watching with interest.

"Follow me." He grabbed Mycroft's wrist and pulled him down a hallway and through a few doors. Finally, they entered a room decorated with fairy lights, red and green garlands and a huge paper wreath. The play broke into the song _'All I want for Christmas is you'_ and the sound streamed into the room.

"Now." Greg said. "You were looking for me?"

"Y-yes." Mycroft said, suddenly nervous. "I...uh...received your card."

Greg's eyes dropped to the floor. "Look, I'm really sorry about what happened. I had no idea--"

"It was in no way your fault.” Mycroft cut in. “I knew the man had a reputation in certain circles, but I was unaware you were in my office, and no idea he'd act in that manner. Truly, I apologize for placing you in that situation."

Greg remembered the telly earlier. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with...you know...what happened to him?"

Mycroft pasted on an innocent face. Too innocent. Greg wasn't sure whether to laugh or be frightened.

"I didn't come here to discuss him." Mycroft said. "I came here because..."

"Because?" Greg found himself stepping closer, until they were but inches apart.

As Mycroft breathed in his warmth, his cologne, the very essence of Gregory Lestrade, any concept of words vanished.

"Because..." Mycroft whispered.

"You couldn't stop thinking about me?" Greg whispered back.

"Possibly." Mycroft closed the remaining inches between them. Their lips gently brushed against each other, light as a feather. Slowly, carefully, Greg deepened the kiss and Mycroft cupped his face with his hands. Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist, and Mycroft groaned as Greg's tongue gently swiped his lower lip. He slid his arms around Greg and pulled him into a passionate kiss.

Just then, the side wall of the room lifted and revealed they were not in a room, but the back of the stage. Which was now exposed to the entire crowd, who quieted at the sight of the two of them snogging. A pin could have dropped.

"Wooohoooo!" A female suddenly hooted. Liz. She stood up and cheered.

Mycroft felt his cheeks erupt into flames. He stole a look at Gregory, who was equally pink but wearing a cheesy grin. He waved at Liz, and everyone else, and slowly the crowd broke into applause.

Mycroft couldn't help but roll his eyes and smile. Greg pulled him off stage and into a deserted hallway. He slid his arms around Mycroft's waist.

"I do believe we've been outed." He said with twinkling eyes. "Hope you don't mind."

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh. "As long as I'm with you, I don't mind in the slightest."

"Good." Greg reached for another kiss. "I guess Father Christmas really does exist."

"Pardon me?" Mycroft asked.

"All I wanted for Christmas was you." He said with a grin.

Mycroft chuckled and held Greg closer. Not that he would admit it, but he had also asked Father Christmas for the gift now nestled in his embrace.

He had a feeling the new year would be spectacular.

**The End**


End file.
